


At Dawn

by ianavi



Series: Sylvan Seasons [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fauns & Satyrs, Fawnlock, Flowers, Forests, Intercrural Sex, John's Jumpers, M/M, Mating, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Nature, Nest of flowers, Oral Sex, Scenting, Spring, courting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 03:57:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4420397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianavi/pseuds/ianavi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Antlers, but above an almost human face. Pale skin with darker patches of auburn, a head of wild dark curls, twitchy deer ears and the unmistakable velvet-covered spring antlers. They both froze for a moment. And then, with a clatter of hooves the creature ran. Shivering in his wool jumper and flannel pajama bottoms John stood unable to move for long minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Dawn

John woke up throwing off his duvet with panic and gasping for air. Again. He settled back onto his battered pillow and took a moment to steady his erratic breathing. A nightmare. Again. No, the nightmare. Always the same one, always leaving behind a sense of loss and phantom pains in his scarred shoulder. War, screams, blood, pain, a gunshot. With a groan he sat up, one hand on the front of his sweat soaked t-shirt.

Spring, but still chilly. The bedroom of the cabin only got a bit of heat from the now long cold kitchen stove. He shrugged off the t-shirt and found a thick wool jumper and even thicker socks. Tea.

He leaned against the kitchen sink with both hands around a warm cup listening to the crackling of the fire in the cast iron stove in the pre-dawn twilight. The nightmare, the war, the loss, it all drifted far away as he took in the sounds and smells of the tea, fire, the cabin itself and the woods that surrounded it.

Looks like he was in for an early start on the next chapter today. That was fine. He'll take an afternoon nap. The first pink-orange hues of the foggy morning promised a nice day.

Small scrapes and rustling on the back porch. It was not windy. He took a step towards the back door and froze.

Antlers?

John was curious and softly stepped closer to peek through the glass inserts of the door. It was still quite dark but he made out a moving shadow and heard more shuffling of hooves. He then made the mistake of stepping on a creaking floorboard. A whisper and a blur and the animal was gone.

A pity, he would have loved to see a young buck up close from the safety of the cabin. What was it doing, though? Not like them to come so close. He never left anything of interest to the wildlife outside.

He set the cup down and opened the door. Boots. His two sets of muddy boots had been pushed about. John lined them up again on the small bench and returned to the warm kitchen to make himself breakfast, a bowl of oatmeal with some apples and honey.

A week passed before John had another nightmare. This one shook him even earlier, it was still dark out. He struggled unsuccessfully for half an hour or so but could not shake off the lingering terror, could not get back to sleep even with the soft sound of rain falling. Right. A fire and tea and breakfast and all would be right.

Just as he entered the kitchen he heard what sounded as a murmur from the porch. The buck, or perhaps a squirrel or rodent? He padded softly in his socks towards the back door avoiding the problematic floorboards.

And was met with a pair of bright gray eyes.

Antlers, but above an almost human face. Pale skin with darker patches of auburn, a head of wild dark curls, twitchy deer ears and the unmistakable velvet-covered spring antlers.

They both froze for a moment. And then, with a clatter of hooves the creature ran.

Shivering in his jumper and flannel pajama bottoms John stood unable to move for long minutes.

What was that? Was he dreaming, hallucinating? Lack of quality sleep, or?

He always kept the door unlocked but now he rested a hand on the lock cautiously. Carefully he peeked out at the bench with his boots and some of the garden tools. Nothing was knocked down, nothing was out of place. It felt surreal. No, living alone in the cabin for the past two years had not made him insane. He was a doctor, well, former doctor, military trained and discharged only due to the injured shoulder. The nightmares were... well. But, no. He regularly drove to town to pick up his pension and buy supplies. He had a book publisher eager to get their hands on the second novel currently in progress. He was not a hermit slowly going insane and having visions of magical creatures. Even his fiction was realistic - bullets and surgery, conflict zones and camaraderie.

He opened the door wide and boldly walked outside to check the bench.

Muddy boots, shovel, fork, gloves. Fine. It was all...

No, one glove. He picked up the one glove. It was damp. But that could have been the rain. He did not want to think about what might have happened to the other glove as he distinctly remembered returning both to the porch after working in the small garden the day before.

He locked the door behind him and went to make the fire. Left the single glove on the kitchen table.

He was now regularly going to bed earlier and waking up at dawn. Even when no nightmares disturbed him. He refused to think about the reasons for change in what were his established routines.

In his denial he'd always first build a fire, fill the tea kettle, start the breakfast. It was usually mid-breakfast that he finally peeked out onto the porch. He'd made it a habit of leaving the boots and tools inside now. And morning after morning all he faced was the empty porch and misty garden.

Two weeks. The other glove was carefully layered over a flowering willow branch. John went out and sat down on the bench next to it. He felt a strange and unfounded relief. It, that, it was real.

He looked around but there were no signs of the creature. What would he even do if it showed up? Run back in? Would he have time? It was tall and, although the antlers were still young and covered in soft velvet, it looked wild and strong. No, there was still some of the soldier in him, he wouldn't run.

He took the glove and flowering willow branch inside and carefully placed it on the table. The glove looked as if something, someone had chewed on it. It was still intact. He drank more tea and looked at the arrangement. Was the branch a sign of apology? For what? Borrowing a glove? He shook his head and laughed.

Spring was a busy time in the garden. Preparing the soil for planting after the thaw, planting peas, leeks, onions, potatoes. More would come as it got close to summer. John grew a simple garden and made simple meals. He could afford to buy all his vegetables but preferred not to have to go to town too frequently. And it was a way to stay fit, most of the rest of the day spent reading or writing.

He enjoyed the seemingly tedious work of raking the garden beds, found it meditative. He'd hum a tune and zone out.

The day was warmer than expected but at the end of it he was ready for a bath and an evening by the burning stove. He was filthy and decided to take off not just the boots and gloves, but also his sweaty mud-caked jumper, and leave the whole lot on the porch bench. Perhaps the mythical creature would do some laundry. He snickered.

He'd had a good night's sleep, the physical exertion had helped. He stretched his sore arms and back and walked to the kitchen stove to start the fire. He was about to cut up an apple into his oatmeal when he heard a small sound from the porch.

Half an apple in hand he walked to the door. Again, with just the glass between them and this time much more sunlight, they stood and watched each other.

He looked, really looked at it. The striking antlers, the curious human face and torso, the twitchy deer ears, the thick auburn fur over lower belly and thighs, the hooves. And in its hands John's jumper. It clutched it to its chest and leaned its head sideways as if waiting for John's reaction. He waited and watched. And it brought the jumper to its face and, eyes watching John, rubbed it over one, then the other cheek, under its jaw and over the sparse fur of its chest. Its ears kept quivering. John couldn't take his eyes off it. It meant something but he did not know what. Absentmindedly he brought the apple to his mouth and took a bite. The creature, the buck, made a strange sound, a couple of clicks at the back of its throat, dropped the jumper and ran off.

John was glued to the glass watching it as it disappeared into the forest. After a while he stepped out to retrieve the jumper. He couldn't resist, he brought it close to his own face and inhaled. A strong musky smell, wilderness and damp moss and spring grasses, but also something strangely fragrant. He took it in and, with one more look to the edge of the forest, went back to his breakfast.

Was it self-aware? Why did it initiate contact? Were there others like it? A herd? Or, a tribe?

Would it return?

The next morning there was something new on the bench. A crude basket of willow branches and fern leaves, filled with wild strawberries and carefully arranged blooming wild clover. No sign of the creature but John knew how the basket got there.

He took the gift inside and plucked a few strawberries. Sweet, much sweeter than any he'd find while walking the forest. Soon he finished the whole basket.

He spent the day thinking about the basket, returning to touch and smell the still unwashed jumper. Before getting ready for bed he prepared a basket of his own. A large wooden salad bowl he rarely used filled with apples, with a large blue hydrangea mophead in the center. He'd checked, deer, even if this was not really a deer, could safely eat both. It was a cold night and he worried the fruit would suffer from frost so he decided to wrap the whole thing into an old blue scarf he'd worn all winter.

He woke early expecting an upturned bowl and some apple cores on the porch.

What awaited him was a sight.

The buck stood in the middle of the porch as if waiting for John to show up. Its antlers full of blackberry branches and wild honeysuckle, with the hydrangea nestled in the middle of it all surrounded by its curls. It held the blue scarf to one cheek and had both hands full of apples. It was smiling as it shifted from hoof to hoof.

It was somehow enchanting.

"Who are you?" John whispered.

It was tilting its head to one side as it to display its decorated antlers, rubbing the scarf to its nose and cheek, coming closer to the glass of the door.

John hesitated for a moment and then slowly opened the door.

With one hand on the door jamb he took in the adorned antlers, the nervous shifting, the expectant gaze. Fur and flowers. And small sounds, deep grunts.

"You look lovely." He spoke softly, afraid he'd frighten the buck.

Slowly, leaving the door open and keeping eye contact he walked back into the kitchen. The buck came to the door and peered inside.

John set about his routine of starting the fire and preparing tea and oatmeal, aware he was carefully watched, ears flicking and nose twitching at what must have been unfamiliar smells.

"So, you'll finally join me for breakfast?" He giggled.

And the buck made the strange clicking sound and dropped an apple. It rolled towards John and he picked it up, set to cutting it into a bowl.

He sat at the table and ate slowly. After watching for a while the buck bolted and disappeared.

"Next time then."

The next dawn brought a sudden storm with heavy rain. It was colder, too. John glanced out the door quickly and not seeing anything, anyone, set to making the fire.

Just as he felt the kitchen heat up a bit he heard soft shuffling.

He opened the door and was met with one very wet, very sad looking creature. Antlers tangled with sweet briar and John's blue scarf and an armful of wild flowers, branches and mosses. And all of it drenched to the bone. The buck made small sniffing noises, its head low as water dripped from the scarf down its face.

"Oh, look at you." John sighed. "Would you like to come in, dry off?"

He backed in and held one hand out to beckon with slow gestures. The creature eyed him warily but after a few moments took three measured steps inside glancing here and there, sniffing the air.

"For me?" John gestured to the flowers.

The buck brought the bunch to its face and rubbed a cheek against it. Still, it looked very unhappy.

"All right, perhaps those are not for me." He glanced around. "Let's see what we can do. I don't suppose you drink tea but maybe you'd like to settle in front of the fire for a while while the storm passes?"

John walked to the other side of the cast iron stove, took an old quilt off the sofa and placed it near the stove. He beckoned towards it but the buck stood still, dripping on the hardwood.

Remembering the gesture, John lifted up one corner of the quilt and rubbed it against his cheek. The buck's ears picked up and it took a small step forward.

"That's it." John smiled and encouraged, leaving the quilt to give it more room.

Finally the creature advanced and carefully set the whole floral bouquet on the floor by the quilt eyeing John with a small smile.

John busied himself with tea and a plate of cut apples and blueberries while the buck arranged flowers, leaves and mosses around the quilt and finally settled in the middle to fumble with the wet scarf tangled in its antlers.

"A nice nest you've got there." John chuckled offering the plate. "Breakfast?"

He set the plate on the floor and feeling sitting on the sofa might unsettle his breakfast companion pulled down a pillow to the floor and sat on that, his tea cup by the plate of fruit.

"Let me help." He reached out after hearing a tearing sound. John slowly unraveled the soaked scarf from the briar careful not to touch the antlers and hung it up next to the stove. He then took a piece of apple and leaned back against the sofa.

The buck made small bawling noises and smiled, reached out and touched some of the moss and grasses, then picked a few blueberries and set it onto the moss.

"Lovely." John laughed and drank his tea. "And incredible. You, this, all of this. Impossible and yet here we are."

After some reluctance the buck took a few pieces of apple and they shared the plate while the rain calmed outside. John looked, really looked at it. So close now. It was beautiful in a way. The piercing eyes, the silky fur, the antlers he now longed to feel under his fingers. And the room was enveloped in a sylvan fragrance. Spring, rain, earth, green, and the distinctive strong musk of the buck.

They finished the plate in silence and John, getting up slowly although he was no longer concerned about startling the creature that was settled in apparent comfort, made himself more tea.

He returned to find his pillow on the edge of the quilt, the no longer wet scarf draped over it as well as some of the flowers. With sudden realisation he blushed red.

"Oh..."

The buck smiled and made more of the clicking noises, turning its head lower so John could appreciate the growing antlers. It was wild, strong, surrounded by a nest of flowers, fruit and greens, gorgeous.

And with shock and shame John felt a stirring of arousal.

He reached out one finger and touched the tip of one antler. The buck visibly shivered. It was soft, yielding to his touch. He stepped closer to touch with both hands. More small grunts and clicking noises, more shivering. And John was trembling, too. This was intimate. He caressed the velvety tine with reverence, allowing his fingers to trail down into the wild curls. The scent intensified and John felt the need to sink into it.

"Is this alright?" He asked, knowing no answer will come. An eager hand enveloped his ankle.

He was so close. One hand still gripping the antler, the other sinking down to scratch into the scalp. The buck shifted, looked up at him with wide eyes and John let his hands envelop the pale face.

"You are truly stunning. Magical."

He leaned down and placed a small kiss into the curls falling over its forehead. The scent was so potent and he brushed his lips and cheek as the buck shivered and grunted.

He took his place on the offered pillow, one hand still brushing the warm skin.

"So, flowers, strawberries and now a nest? Is this how you court?" For a moment he felt foolish and embarrassed and started to pull back. With both strong hands the buck pulled him into its furry lap.

Suddenly the touching was no longer tentative. He was held close as an eager mouth set to sucking and kissing his neck. Hands traveled over his back and hips, pressing, squeezing. He moaned and in response the grunts grew louder.

He let his fingers sink into the thick silky fur down the buck's lower back and he was met with a flinch of a fluffy tail. He wrapped a hand around it eliciting a roar the sound of which brought him to full arousal. He ground his clothed erection unabashedly into a furry thigh and found himself on his back in the middle of the flower-strewn nest with an aroused, wild-eyed buck over his body, caging him in with hooves, arms, lowered antlers.

They stayed still for a moment, panting.

And without a second thought John started to pull off his wool jumper. Then pajama bottoms and socks.

A cold nose and hot mouth started tracing over his hot naked skin. Neck, chest, for a long time and with tiny distressed bleats his extensively scarred shoulder, his armpits, and lower over his stomach. He let his hands return to glide over the velvet of the antlers as the buck explored his groin with pants of hot breath and swipes of tongue. He was beyond aroused, his thick cock spasming under the attention.

The scent that now enveloped his damp skin heightened each sensation and too soon John started moaning and pushing into that hot mouth. It was rough and uncoordinated and he orgasmed almost painfully hard, hands gripping antler and fur.

He could not do much but breathe hard gasps as the buck swiped its tongue at his semen-soaked stomach and climbed back over him. Caging him back under its larger body and with the antlers almost brushing his forehead it gripped John's sweaty thighs between its fur-covered ones and pushed a long erection between them.

It was magnificent, powerful, wild as it took its pleasure rutting in a slow and steady rhythm, licking at John's face, mouth, neck, breathing its scent over him. Soon it too shook, ejaculating spurts of semen over John's thighs and groin, grunting with pleasure and satisfaction.

They stayed together on the quilt for a while, the buck's heated skin and fur warming John as he wondered at it all. The forest, the buck, the nest, the mating.

"Amazing creature."

He allowed himself to doze off, sheltered in a sturdy and fragrant embrace.

**Author's Note:**

> No idea how this happened. Fawnlock. I know...


End file.
